Notre Dame surrounded me, swallowed me whole into her sacred depths, the bones of her old pillars holding up centuries-old flesh with strength undaunted. I journeyed into her hushed darkness, her vaulted chest soaring above me while the rustling breath of other souls eddied around me: joyous, worshipful, attentive, their whispers inhaling and exhaling with the pulse of The Lady as she drew us farther in.

Glorious arches lifted in silent ranks on either side, capillaries drawing soul-whispers into candle-lit niches where prayers swirled and sighed, and fed the watchful shadows of countless patient years. But I was drawn deeper into her echoing chest, pulled toward the far end where a magnificent rosetta window – richly crafted with vivid stained glass – pulsed with the flicker of heavy afternoon light.

I stood before the altar, basking in the streaming colors, and let The Lady’s Heart bleed over me.

beautiful Angela. Years ago,a new parishoner told me the reason she started attending services at our small, neighbourhood church was because she felt the prayers of past parishoners surrounding her. Somehow the gratitude, longings, dreams, heartache, faith of those people had become part of the architecture and furnishings. I think that lovely feeling is what you've captured in your story.

That is very much the spirit of what I saw in ND. It was amazing – outside the cathedral, everything was cameras and tourists and silly teenagers and chaos; but the minute you pass through the doors all of that falls away. The rowdy visitors are stilled, the cameras go into pockets and backpacks, yammering voices drop into whispers or silence altogether. Something of the sacred and holy lingers still in that old cathedral, and has only grown with time. I love it.